


By the Lovely River Seine

by AlexBandGay_And_TheHurrikane



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Paris - Freeform, They listen to Dean Martin and Miles wanders memory lane, doubtful, miles thinks a lot, very cute mostly, will I ever stop writing about Paris?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexBandGay_And_TheHurrikane/pseuds/AlexBandGay_And_TheHurrikane
Summary: Alex chooses a familiar Dean Martin record and together they (or mostly Miles) reflect on their relationship with one another and with that album over time.
Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	By the Lovely River Seine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faketalesofmilex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faketalesofmilex/gifts).



> So I read this fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/24267205 by faketalesofmilex and then listened to French Style by Dean Martin and got hopelessly overwhelmed and just HAD to write this. 
> 
> I would like to apologise also because I am very rusty. I’m also very aware that Alex is hopelessly out of character and Miles is hardly any better but here we are :) 
> 
> Enjoy?

_There we met and there we parted_

_By the lovely river Seine_

_Two young lovers broken hearted_

_For we knew we'd loved in vain_

_And though years may go_

_Some day I know_

_She'll come to Paris again_

_And I'll find her where I lost her_

_By the lovely river Seine_

——————/——————

There’s barely been a sentence exchanged between them all evening, one of those evenings where afternoon clung on almost too long and the heat of the day hung around as if its only purpose was to siphon off the productivity from the air. In that warm early summer haze, with the windows leaking heated rectangles of light into the space and a murmuring of distant traffic brought through on soft breezes, Miles finds himself longing for a thunderstorm. Some rain to break up the haze, nature’s delicious answer to the problem that’s been winding round his thoughts for the past 40 minutes. Alex chose the record, possibly to match the mood, or maybe his wine but more likely because he was getting sentimental. It had been coming for days, weeks maybe and it had taken Miles a moment to notice. 

First, at the beginning of the week, it was stories that began with “remember when...” and ended with fits of giggles and a kiss or two on the settee. 

Then later there was a generous little huff of a chuckle culminating in a “god that’s taken me back.” As though he were an old war veteran reminiscing about the joys of childhood in simpler times. 

Eventually that had given way to a more pensive look that came on suddenly upon his noticing of a scent or a sound and stuck around well after it had gone, accompanied by the tiniest upquirk of a lip into a smile. He didn’t mention specific memories but Miles knew something had pushed itself out of a box in his mind, revealing itself for a moment like a beam of light through the crack in a floorboard, always visible but made to look suddenly tangible only because of the dust that hangs in the air. Something, that sound or smell or taste had pried open a shutter and let the light fall on something dusty and tucked away, bringing out of shadow for a moment. 

Finally, today, there came the longing. A long, languid afternoon, too hot to really be as close as they were but with neither of them wanting to part. At some point Alex had taken the book he’d been reading and carefully tucked a folded bit of paper inside to keep his page. He set it aside and for a second Miles assumed he was about to witness another example of the pensive style of nostalgia he’d come to recognise recently. No doubt the man had read some word that lit a match to a flame and set him on that path once more of locating an open shutter somewhere in the recesses of memory. Instead he turned to Miles and smiled, kissed his cheek and ignored the way he groaned when he had to move from under him in order to get up — he needn’t have worried for Alex did return to the very same position soon after.

“Think I’ll open a red, if you’re in the mood?” He suggested. Miles could hardly concentrate, partly just far too warm, partly distracted by the dusting of sunburn across his collarbones that was shown off delightfully by a white mark from his chain. Partly stolen of breath by that soft, content little smile that the man wore whenever they two were together like this. Alex had been sunbathing earlier, sipping at a coffee, nose firmly in that book and the delicate flush to his otherwise lightly tanned skin was such a pretty reminder of his folly. He’d have to remind him about sunscreen tomorrow though. 

Miles nodded instead of actually answering the question. Hearing the low rumble of Alex’s voice through the still air had made him conscious of his own underused voice. He’d hit a sort of relaxed state of melancholy, a comforting sense of domesticity that buoyed him up with every semi-distant clink of glasses, the thunk or the cork being removed and the glug of the first pour.

He startles himself sharply before he allows a low whinge to escape his chest, protesting the fact that Alex was suddenly so far away. He shouldn’t care, should just relish the feeling of that gentle cross breeze from the window behind the settee and of the soothing comfort of the cool side of a throw cushion against his bare back. Instead he counts seconds until his personal cushion — a far warmer one that shouldn’t have provided nearly as much of that soothing comfort as it does — is back in place, not caring at all for the warmth that makes their skin quickly grow damp where their limbs and chests meet. 

Alex’s response to the heatwave wasn’t to keep farther away or anything sensible like that but to simply dress in fewer clothes. He’d borrowed Miles’ vests and wore a pair of sports shorts, bare feet against wooden floors and his overgrown hair carelessly tucked up in a bun at the back of his head. It just makes the whole thing all the more domestic, this outfit he’d never wear in front of anyone else, consisting half of Miles clothes anyway — not that the latter fact would be what held him back from that particular outfit of course. 

Alex hands him a glass of wine and Miles has to once again suppress the urge to whinge upon realising he’s moved away again. Then that record starts up and suddenly words couldn’t force their way from his lips no matter how hard he tried. 

On his way back to the settee he hums softly as he rakes his eyes over Miles where he’s stretched out like a cat in a sunspot, shielding his eyes from sunlight streaming in right across his face with an artfully draped arm. Miles certainly likes to imagine that it’s an appreciative hum and when he smirks up at him he’s rewarded with a flustering huff. Still he’s a little caught up in the moment thanks to the opening bars of By The Lovely River Seine. At first he wasn’t sure why Alex had started with side B, but now he’s listening to it he’s glad that he didn’t start with Side A, let’s him flounder for the duration of the one song right away instead of being slowly drawn in and then crushed later on.

Alex, oblivious to Miles’ own sudden jaunt down memory lane — certainly nothing like a stroll and definitely more of a stumble like a front wheel of a bike getting caught in a missing chunk of pavement that sets you careening over the handlebars to, hopefully, safety — plops himself down and curls an arm around Miles’ shoulders. 

_“Two young lovers, broken hearted_

_For they knew they’d loved in vain”_

Dean martin’s voice rings out from the corner, Alex has been caught in stare for the better part of a minute already but he blinks quickly when Miles finally speaks.

“You know, every time I hear this album now I get lost in the memories of ya? 

He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to say anything really. The moment they’d been sharing —before he’d opened his mouth that was — stretched almost as long as the shadows steadily lengthening in preparation for warm oncoming dusk. It began with a restless fluttering in his’ chest that simply would not quiet despite his attempts at calm, slow breathing. It ended, hallways through the record, just with Miles’ head cradled in Alex’s comforting lap, sure fingers carding through his hair as the ending of a record played out. 

_“There we met and there we parted, by the lovely river seine.”_

———/————

The second the words have left his mouth he tries to school his features into an expression resembling neutrality but the sudden panic that shifts across Alex’s face for a second shatters the moment all the same and in response Miles can only stare back at him. 

It takes Alex a beat too long to find his voice and when he does it’s a quiet and tight version that sounds as though he’s forcing words out around something stuck in his throat. Miles studies him from where he’s sitting back, expression hopefully neutral, exuding what he hopes to be the picture of stoicism and calmness. Alex avoids eye contact, stares at a spot on the wall and swallows hard like he’s trying to find his voice. Miles’ eye stays trained on his Adam’s apple, watching it bob up and down twice before he swallows again and tries a little harder to locate his voice. Alex’s accent twists at his words.

“I... is tha’ a bad thing?” 

Miles sucks in a slow breath and rearranges his lips into a smile even though he knows Alex can tell that it doesn’t entirely reach his eyes. 

“Not wholly.”

He’d been hoping for something more reassuring but much like earlier the words fell from his lips before he had a chance to reel them in. Alex’s answering smile is wistful and a bit sad but he finally meets Miles’ gaze. Then he sighs. He takes one of Miles’ hands in his and kisses the top of his knuckles. “Well ‘en... maybe if I try a bit harder we can make tha’ even... less...” 

Alex visibly struggles to find the word but Miles knows what he means all the same and decides to stop him floundering. He squeezes his hand in response and shakes his head. “Not your fault entirely, besides, I like to think we got better at communicating.” 

Alex lets out a dry laugh, relief palpable in the recognising as a response to Miles’ assurance that he hasn’t, in fact, ruined the moment. His shoulders sag noticeably and he curls closer and nestles his head under Miles’ chin, tucked up at his shoulder. He’s always been tactile and it certainly comes as no shock to Miles that he needs a physical reminder that they’re fine. Miles kisses the top of his head. He hums along to the familiar tune. He rubs his thumb over the back of Alex’s hand, toys with the hem of those bloody shorts of his that Alex is wearing, catching the material between thumb and finger until the tickling apparently gets too much and makes him twitch.

“Remember when we listened to this last?” 

Miles blinks. He couldn’t forget if he tried. He’d listened to it many a time in his own since as well, a certain form of torture that he secretly loved to subject himself to. For a long time, taking just over half an hour to listen to that record again was to feel something. To feel it’s comforting hold, dark recesses of his mind seeing the light for the first time in years. To feel the ebb and flow of memories over time. To feel the presence of his grandmother and her mispronounced words as she sang along, offkey andbarely on beat. To feel the hand of his mother in his own tiny ones as they danced around the kitchen and made the most of the small space amid giggles and humming. To feel the way the memories waned and stuck to the corners of things in his mind for a while during his teenage years when other records took the proverbial centre stage. To feel love along with sunlight on his face and breath in his cheek at night, that album playing out in the morning while coffee brewed on the stove. To feel the tears that tracked down his face, drunk and alone in a house that had never felt like his halfway across the world. To feel the joy that spread to the fingers of his trembling hand when his mum’s voice answered the phone surprised my his early morning phone call before remembering about the time difference and quietly informing him that his room was still fully available should he want to come back and stay for a while. Listening to that collection of songs meant something, it meant feeling even when he was numbed and confused, feeling even when he was contentedly dreamingly floating in those warm golden moments drenched in love and delight, feeling when he was left aching and cold when the warm had left. 

They’d first listened to it together the night they arrived in France at a rural studio with farmhouse accommodation. In a heat not dissimilar to the early summer sun they’ve been experiencing all week, a rather more shy version of his Alex had sported loose button up shirts and jeans until he couldn’t take it much longer and borrowed polos and shorts from Miles. That first evening they lay on the bed in Miles’ room, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, one earbud each from the set of earphones plugged into Miles’ MP3. They’d had to sit so close lest they should pull each other’s wire out. Miles sang along too loudly and they listened three times over as Miles got more and more excited and a bottle of wine — comparatively cheaper and rougher on the tongue than the one currently sitting on his coffee table — slowly diminished. 

He’d felt everything all at once on that evening; delight in the way they fit together, physically and otherwise; comfort in the smell of home in his hair despite the physical distance; and, on chancing a tentative glance into the future and what the next two weeks would hold, anticipation — which, in his limited experience back then, certainly had not had a habit to set him up with disappointment. Alex always had had this astounding ability to capture in song a feeling he’d not even yet experienced. Miles hadn’t known then that the songs on this record Dean Martin’s French Style could be his blanketing yet torturous safety net in times of heartbreak later on. 

Years later they spent an afternoon in Paris as tourists, the last day of an incredible tour, love spilling from every word breathed in one another’s direction and falling from every sun drenched gaze meeting tired eyes. Miles loved Alex’s eyes that afternoon, crinkled at the edges with laughter lines from weeks of cheerful mirth, the late summer sun sinking into their brown depth and making them glow golden as if they were made just to draw you in. 

However, when Miles shared those thoughts about the light and his eyes something shifted, the light departed, extinguished and suddenly grown cold. A cloud passing the sun and leaving him chilly in its absence, his back against the grass on the bank of the Seine and fingers recently entwined suddenly lonely and drifting back to lay on his stomach. Miles’ smile faltered too and the words he’d had on the tip of his tongue fell to earth too, gravity claiming them back as they fell out of orbit. 

There weren’t enough hours in the day to overthink what he’d said wrong but it didn’t stop him doing just that. He knew Alex heard those soft lovesick blandishments and for once didn’t feel able to reciprocate. He knew Alex heard the three word simple meaning in his meandering sentences. He knew deep down that he still hoped that something good like that could last despite his younger self’s slowly succumbing to the realist way of life, the hardening of a true romantic in a modern world. Alex slipped from his grip that afternoon and though they wandered back to their hotel with fingers brushing, teetering on clasping again, and although they still shared quiet conversation and gentle laughter Miles felt like a stranger, wandering and lost in an unfamiliar city. 

Years later they returned. He returned. And was surprised to find an invitation to his show accepted. 

Three years were cold and viscous, sticky but like tar not treacle and they dragged him down until his chest struggled to fill with air and anything he wore felt like it weighed him down. An album near enough wrote itself and it was falling far far short of swooning and soft, missed the mark of pastel coloured evenings and rose tinted afternoons. Instead it was rough edged and hard hitting and poured out every ounce of energy he had left until all that remained was the shell that slowly needed to be filled back up and put back out there, bit by bit and moment by moment. 

Then, when he felt strong again, armoured with a mask of his own and a sturdy outer layer to shield him he wrote the final track on the album, far softer than almost all the others, longing and hopeful and generous with affection in the ways he hadn’t been in himself for a while.

He donned that mask again when he went on tour, eyeliner and glitter that became less and less necessary as each show passed by until he only made himself up for the pleasure of it. Then again, when the time came that he sent out that invitation, a simple text that shouldn’t have had his hands shaking, he’d already planned a more elaborate mask for the evening, just in case. At least if he had no reply he’d be able to think of the makeup instead as a distraction. 

Alex actually replied in minutes. 

“Yes, of course.” 

Nothing mushy or overkill, just that solid, simple response. Miles liked that, liked that he didn’t have to pin his hopes to anything desperate like “wouldn’t miss it for the world” or anything equally awful. Instead he looked forward to the gig as he did any other. His surprise and delight was piqued again at the flashing on hi: screen the following morning showing a text from the man himself.

“When are you soundchecking? Meet me by our bridge after?” 

Intrigued, he’d let himself respond without pause and a meeting was arranged. 

Alex greeted him with a new hairstyle and an old expression. It was one Miles was familiar with but hadn’t seen for a while. He looked young wearing that soft look, bashful and concerned, lips drawn together and eyebrows close as he avoided eye contact and deliberated on pulling him in for a hug. Miles quelled his obvious anguish by taking the initiative himself to pull him close but he was surprised all over again by the tightness with which Alex clung. He was also left reeling by the fact that after all this time, and even despite the conscious and continuous schooling of his otherwise unruly thoughts, his heartbeat picked up. 

Alex led him along the Seine, walking a well tread route and babbling on about how sometimes he’d jog along this stretch of river if he went early enough and there weren’t too many tourists. He often babbled when he was nervous. Miles could hardly breathe as their fingers brushed again skipping against each other’s but never closing the distance full. By then his mind was overwhelmed with memories of the last time they walked this way together. When they reached a grassy bank and slowed almost to a halt, Alex tailed off and looked around. He peered up at an overcast sky and hummed a familiar tune but Miles cut him off. 

“The fuck is this, Alex?” His voice came out low and he didn’t like that he sounded exhausted when he said it but in his defence he was drained. Drained by the long morning of wondering what he’d be met with at _their bridge_ — as Alex had called it. The bloody _Meeting Place_. Drained by the stroll along memory lane, line between reality and memory itself woefully blurry. Drained by the electricity flickering as their fingertips tried to touch but repelled one another like magnets facing the wrong way. 

Alex startled like a deer in headlights, eyes wide as he swallowed hard much like he had just now, nerves palpable and obvious to anyone who knew him even a little. Miles remembered him stumbling over words, his cheeks pink and eyes downcast although he’d made the effort to remove his sunglasses at least. The sky was threatening rain and there was hardly a soul around. Late in the season for tourists anyway. 

“I- I just...” a breath, to steady himself or come up with words perhaps. Miles strongly suspected he had something rehearsed actually. 

“There were a time not so long ago that you took me by surprise somewhere near ‘ere. I can’t

remember where abouts on this bank we were because I were too busy getting lost in your... fuckin’ presence... I dunno... uhm anyway it were, genuinely Miles, one of the biggest regrets of me life to not ‘av said anythin’ back t’you then.” 

Miles inhaled hard enough that he almost choked, stood staring at the man barely 4 feet away as his movements showed his distress. 

“I know... ehem, I know yer not one fer romantic notions and... fuckin... poetic phrases... but I know it... that line about me... eyes... it, fuck, I know it came from the heart.” 

He visibly cringed in a way that made Miles realise it wasn’t rehearsed. Had it been, he would’ve certainly found some better way to phrase that. In fact, his stumbling mumbles almost had Miles smiling but Alex wasn’t finished so he kept his mouth shut. 

“But what I would’ve said, if I’d ‘ad the bloody guts back then, couldn’t even compare to what I could say to ye now, some throwaway word or two about how much that look you gave me, tha’ one tha’s jus’ lousy with... affection... it’s... I dunno ‘ow to tek it. Never been good bein’ the centre of attention... an’ whenever yer around you’d ‘ave me the centre of yours the entire time... but I craved it.

“Now tho, what I’d tell ye’s different. That light in yer eyes never ever leaves, it’s glowin’ there right now, even tho the sun’s a no-show. I love that about ye Miles. I love that you’ve never let that light go out. And I’m proud of ye, fer everything, the album and all as well. I uhm... I’m just so proud.” His cheeks were reddening by the time he finished his uncertain monologue and Miles’ had been ablaze since he’d started. There was no firework flying kiss or igniting of sparks when they touched but Miles smiled a soft smile and Alex broke into a relived one of his own. 

Back then there was certainly plenty of conversation that they still needed to have. In fact, they finally managed to have a good chunk of it thatevening and other evenings afterwards. For then though, despite the sun going down early and the warmth being stolen from the afternoon by the promise of rain, Miles let himself be warmed by that feeling spreading once more from his chest and radiating outwards. They only had an hour before Miles had to make his way to the venue but an hour was plenty of time to spare. When it got just a bit too cold and Miles fingers twined subtly with Alex’s started to get numb, Alex pulled off his jacket and draped it around him in a gesture so suddenly intimate, so suddenly different from what Miles was used to that he understood right there and then what this new dynamic was going to grow into.

Just for then, they sat on the bank, suspended in a timewarp, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee with one wireless headphone each as Miles pulled up that album on Spotify. 

_“And I’ll find her, where I lost her, by the lovely river Seine.”_

Alex shifts subtly at his chest, unwittingly grounding Miles in the present once again, easing him back to floating after a brief half hour out at sea, waves crashing over his head as he struggled to tread water. His heart pounds away in satisfying rhythm, all at once a casual, steady beat as well as a deliberate, conscious effort of calm. Alex’s fingers drum up against his rib cage to match what’s going on inside. He takes a sip of wine and exhales as the next song starts up. 

_“The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,_

_I heard the laughter of her heart in every street cafe”_

There’s the dynamic he’d predicted on the banks of the Seine that afternoon. It’s an ability to rely on someone, a comfort in his presence and a beat that always managed to matched his own. 

_“The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,_

_No matter how they change her, I'll remember her that way.”_


End file.
